


Sonata In Black And White

by cycnus39



Category: Batman (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bondage, First Meetings, M/M, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to Metropolis, Bruce expects Luthor to be predatory, Ollie to be difficult and the architecture to be uncooperative, but nothing could prepare him for his first encounters with Superman...or the tragic return of a lost love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata In Black And White

Shark.

Luthor was a shark.

Nothing else was so sleek and smooth with a lethal smile and flat, dead eyes.

Such thinking should have perturbed him, but it just made him wonder if Lex would swim away if he punched him hard enough on the nose. While he wouldn’t class himself as a world-class shark puncher, he had developed enough skill to send most sharks swimming on the first strike. But was Lex like most sharks?

“Bruce?”

He blinked and the shark in the ten-thousand-dollar suit was refilling his whisky glass with a smirk that meant someone, somewhere, was selling their soul.

“I said that after providing dinner and a nightcap, I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer you a bed as well. You’re very welcome to any guest suite you prefer. Perhaps the Roman rooms...” Lex droned on again and he blocked it out again, took a drink of whisky and studied the room while savouring its smooth, almost cinnamon burn.

Lex’s private complex on the top six floors of Lexcorp’s east tower may not have been the typical habitat of the average shark but it was typical for a man like Lex. Everything was a show of wealth, of power, of the immeasurable force that could be brought to bear at any moment. The very design of Lexcorp’s twin towers was a two-pronged attack, a pincer movement lying in wait to encircle and destroy any enemy. It was hardly surprising that every inch of Lex’s private rooms, from the gilt leather wallpaper to the priceless porcelains, was there to impress, oppress and vanquish. And the sanctum they were currently occupying was no different.

Lilac? The leather wallpaper in this room seemed to have been dyed a very blue lilac and boasted a gilt pattern of gladioli and hunting hounds. No, wait, that didn’t fit. Cerberus. The hound pattern was a repeated representation of one three-headed dog running between the gladioli, not a pack of hounds. Swords and wealth? That fitted Lex’s thinking, but there were other interpretations of the pattern.

Gladiolus meant ‘little sword’ in Latin and Cerberus was a symbol for Hades, which could also be interpreted as Hell. So the wallpaper was warning of a little sword and Hell? That didn’t bode well for anyone Lex had sexual designs upon. But then, on a more serious note, the austere, dark woods and sharply polished brass of the bookcases, display cases and plinths that lined the walls, together with the various antiques displayed like prisoners of war held captive by their spotlights, didn’t bode well for anyone in Lex’s world. Even the carpet, which would have been a beautiful rich blue in other circumstances, looked like a twilight sky with every star snuffed out.

The only saving graces in Lex’s sanctum, and perhaps in Lex himself, were the perfectly smooth burn of the Dalmore whisky and the impossibly deep comfort of the gilt and lilac Bellangé bergère. But even they came at a price.

If you wanted to drink Lex’s drink and sit in Lex’s chair, you had to put up with Lex sitting in the chair opposite you trying to deconstruct you one weakness at a time before closing in for the kill. It made for a tiresome evening and he was already tired, had already drank too much wine at dinner to be drinking Scotch now, but he had no choice. If he didn’t look like he was playing Lex’s game, didn’t look like he was bending to Lex’s will, Lex would know there was more to him than met the eye and that wasn’t an advantage he was prepared to give up. No, the only saving grace in Lex’s sanctum was something Lex couldn’t control despite his efforts to make it appear that he did.

Metropolis.

The north wall of Lex’s favourite room was constructed purely from palladium glass, as was its double sliding door and balcony beyond. From inside the room, the glass made it look as if Metropolis was in a display case, made it look as if Metropolis was just another one of Lex’s spotlit prisoners. But looks were deceiving. The truth was that Metropolis was the only thing on display that Lex couldn’t control and so, of course, it was the only thing Lex really wanted.

“Then again, I could be talking to myself,” Lex said softly and the change of tone caught his attention, made him look back at Lex sitting poised in the chair opposite. “Did you comprehend a word?” Lex went on with the amused smile of a cat watching a bird with a broken wing and, for the first time, he noticed how shiny Lex’s nails were. “A syllable, perhaps?” Lex pressed and he had to say something.

“Shellac?”

Lex blinked. “I’m not following.”

“On your nails,” he clarified, but only received an eye roll for his trouble.

“It occurs to me you may have reached your limit, Bruce,” Lex said, standing up from his chair, “so let me relieve you of your burden.” Lex reached down and took his glass of Dalmore from his fingers. “And, since I know you like to do the right thing,” Lex continued, walking over to the plinth that was serving as a drinks table, “let me assure you that selling that troublesome strip of turf to me would indeed be--”

“The right thing?” concluded a surprisingly perfect voice on the breeze from the suddenly open balcony door, and he couldn’t finish calculating the words per minute of that flawless voice, couldn’t be sure if he’d ever breathe again let alone find his own voice or even think again because...flying.

Flying into the room.

Him.

Blue and red.

Red and blue.

Flying.

And it was beautiful.

Alien? Maniac? Hero? Superman had been on his list of things to investigate for months, but nothing in his preparatory data could have prepared him for this. This was like seeing it rain when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, like feeling that wondrous rain falling on your skin and-- Wrong, his logic told him. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. Clearly that ridiculous costume lacked the devices needed to lend this ‘super man’ his powers and that made him an alien, made him dangerous. The fact that he was giving off an aura of well being to beguile humans just made him even more alien, even more dangerous.

But he didn’t feel dangerous.

He felt like sunlight.

“Superman,” Lex ground out through gritted teeth as the alien crossed his arms over his chest and met Lex’s rabid glare with a cool blue stare, “I’d offer you a drink but you don’t, do you?”

“Not with criminal scum like you, Luthor.”

One hundred and sixty words per minute in perfect intonation.

“Ah, pray tell,” Lex sighed like a wronged Shakespearean hero, “what diabolical deed have you trespassed to accuse me of this evening?”

“Varnley Street.”

“I am familiar with it as a condemned area of Suicide Slum.”

“There was an accident there this evening.”

“How very unfortunate, but that is exactly why it was judged unfit for habitation. Those buildings are--”

The alien put up a belaying hand. “You misunderstand. The buildings are fine and so are the families you are trying to make destitute. The accident occurred when one of the thugs you hired--”

“I assure you I did no such thing.”

“Not personally, but your puppet management company--”

“Any agent I employ may hire whomever they choose to carry out whatever tasks they deem necessary within the realms of lawfulness. If you have proof they acted illegally in any way, I implore you to take it to the proper authorities so the scoundrels may be punished to the full extent of the law.”

Unfazed by Lex’s speech, the alien just lowered his head like a stubborn bull showing his horns. “You’re not evicting those families.”

“My apologies,” Lex returned with a serpent’s stolen smile, “but speculation on that matter was ended by the courts this morning.”

“Nothing’s ended until the court of public opinion has had its say,” the alien growled back, then gave Lex an absurdly muscled cold shoulder and turned to...blue.

Superman had the bluest eyes he had ever seen and they drew him into their remarkable depths without an ounce of protest.

“Metropolis is a beautiful city full of opportunity,” the flawless voice said as he wondered how anyone’s eyes could be so clear and guileless. “Please make sure you choose the right opportunities, Mr Wayne.”

He blinked, jolted back to reality at the mention of his name to find Superman gone and Lex cursing under his breath as he locked the balcony door. If it wasn’t for Lex’s upset, he wouldn’t have believed Superman had been in the room at all.

“My apologies,” Lex spoke as if there were shards of glass in his mouth. “Metropolis has an unfortunate super vermin issue that needs to be addressed.”

“Addressed how?” he automatically responded as Lex walked towards him.

Pausing, Lex considered him for a moment before answering low, “A conversation for another day, perhaps. Tonight it seems you are overdue for Hypnos’ embrace.”

“I don’t know about Hypnos,” he replied, pushing up out of the chair to stand in front of Lex, “but I’m sure someone will be expecting some embracing back in my hotel suite.”

“I’m sure someone will!” Lex threw an overly friendly arm around his shoulders while walking him towards the door then out into the elevator corridor. “As long as you remember that I saw Lois first, we’ll still be friends,” Lex half joked before looking up at the camera on the right side of the blue enamel elevator doors. “Mercy, bring the car around. Mr Wayne is returning to his hotel.”

There was no acknowledgement from Mercy but Lex didn’t need to hear one. Lex’s stony-faced driver and bodyguard was always on duty and would carry him back to his hotel over her shoulder if Lex ordered her to do so.

“You never stay in Metropolis long enough, Bruce,” Lex complained lightly as the enamel doors slid back and they stepped into the gold embossed elevator car. “A few weekdays here, a weekend there, I’m beginning to think Metropolis doesn’t agree with you.”

He smiled as the elevator began its descent, but Lex’s jabbing diagnosis was more right than Lex supposed. A city where even the most deprived neighbourhoods were lit up like Central Stadium was never going to be on his list of favourite destinations. The designer of Metropolis’ ridiculously overachieving electrical grid had a lot to answer for and, now that he thought about it, was probably a supervillain with evil machinations.

“Or maybe you’re keeping your distance from Lois,” Lex speculated to amuse himself, and he couldn’t resist being the grit in Lex’s oyster.

“Oh, last time I saw Lois was in Gotham,” he returned breezily. “We had a lovely dinner in the Rose Rooms then headed back to mine for a nightcap.”

“How endearing,” Lex growled.

“It was,” he sighed, feigning impatience with the elevator’s seemingly never ending descent when he knew there was precisely twenty-three seconds before they reached the lobby. “You must spend half your life in this elevator, Lex. You know, if you knocked a few floors off the building, you wouldn’t have to be in here so long.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“They say they’re unhealthy. Elevators. Full of diseases.”

“How fascinating.” Lex began watching the elevator’s descent on the display panel with keen interest. “Do let me know the next time you read a science article in ‘Tattle’ magazine.”

“There was actually a very interesting piece the other week about hands. It seems they are never as clean as people think.”

“Ah, Mercy,” Lex said as the elevator doors opened to the lobby and Lex’s humourless female behemoth, “I’ll leave Mr Wayne in your capable hands. Bruce,” Lex continued, leading him out of the elevator before retreating back into it, “I’ll call you next time I’m in Gotham.”

“Good night, Lex,” he said as the elevator doors closed and Lex was finally gone. At least until next time.

“This way, Mr Wayne,” Mercy abruptly said before leading the way down the lobby then out to the Rolls-Royce.

The drive from Lexcorp to his hotel on the opposite side of the Central Business District was uneventful, but the bright lights flashing in through the bulletproof windows of the Lex’s Rolls wouldn’t let him grab a quick nap no matter how far he scrunched down into the luxurious leather and silk interior. Damn Metropolis and her souped-up electrical grid. He was sure no good would come of it.

The hotel was just where he had left it, sitting in extreme opulence on the south bank of Hob’s River, and he was glad to escape Lex’s power statement of a car and wander into the mellow semi-darkness of its lobby. He liked the dimmed lights of hotels in the evening. Dimmed lights were definitely the way forward...as were elevators that took you almost to the very door of your suite.

As soon as he walked into the cool darkness of his suite’s central sitting room, he heard Ollie shouting at the TV in the main bedroom. Letting the door close behind him, he stripped off his tie, jacket and shirt while walking across the floor towards the TV’s flickering light.

“How was dinner with Rapunzel?” Ollie asked as he reached the bedroom door unbuttoning his trousers and toeing off his shoes.

“As expected.” He took in the vision of Ollie lounging naked on the king-sized bed with a thirty-inch, plush flamingo. “Should I leave you two alone?”

Shaking his head, Ollie patted the mattress beside him. “It’s only kinky when you use the whole flamingo.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” he yawned, kicking off his underwear and crawling onto the bed to collapse barely an inch from Ollie.

“Aw, did the bad bald man make you tired?” Ollie teased, pulling him into a warm embrace so his head was pillowed on Ollie’s chest. “That’s what happens when you don’t want to sell your land to cue balls or old bitches,” Ollie went on with a kiss on the side of his head.

“She only wants to buy it so she can sell it to Luthor,” he growled at the flamingo’s beady eye catching the TV light to glint at him from the other side of Ollie’s chest, “and Luthor already has a stranglehold on Metropolis.”

“So sell it to me,” Ollie offered with another consoling kiss. “I’ll get the old stables up and running again and we can race some ponies while baldy and great aunt bitchface stew.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll settle for the bird not glaring at me.”

“Yeah, well don’t say I don’t do anything for you.” Ollie leaned away to put the flamingo on the floor before wriggling down the bed and kissing him soft and long then quick and sweet. “She was glaring at you because she knows I’m dropping her off at the free clinic tomorrow.”

“Now I won’t be able to sleep for fear of her smothering me in the night.” He stifled another yawn. “But do the healthcare industry a favour and don’t mention that kinky line tomorrow.”

Ollie just smirked. “On the subject of adult toys, did Rapunzel show you his solid gold dildo?”

“I don’t think Lex owns a dildo, Ollie, solid gold or otherwise.”

“You’re not thinking, Bruce.”

“I don’t want to think about Lex and a dildo.”

“Exactly! Rapunzel up there in his ivory towers thinks he’s too good for the rest of us so he’s not going to let himself get fucked by one of us which means he must be fucking himself.”

“With a solid gold dildo.”

“Now you’re thinking.”

“And I sincerely wish I wasn’t...exactly how long have you been sitting in the dark with the flamingo?” he asked, trying to rinse the image of Lex and his golden dildo out of his brain.

“Long enough,” Ollie grumped as the documentary on TV began a segment about the Checkmate conspiracies. “Him again,” Ollie complained at the dour face of Roderick Tyrell taking up the screen. “You can tell he’s lying because he’s breathing.”

“If you’re going to shout again, turn it off.”

Ollie didn’t respond but the scowl on his face was almost audible.

Closing his eyes, he blocked out Tyrell’s droning lies, tried to drift off to sleep, but something was unsettling him.

“I saw the alien tonight,” he said into the darkness, didn’t know why he’d said it, suddenly wished he hadn’t.

“Welcome to the club,” Ollie replied offhandedly, and he could have let it go there, could have let Ollie think he’d saw Superman at a distance like almost everyone else. But something made him want to correct Ollie’s assumption, made him want to tell what happened.

Opening his eyes, he met Ollie’s gaze. “No, he was there, in the room. He flew in the balcony doors, hovered five feet in front of me.”

Ollie frowned. “Then what did he do?”

“Spoke to Lex.”

“And?”

“Spoke to me.”

Ollie raised a surprised eyebrow. “What did he say to you?”

“Watch out for Lex.”

“Yeah,” Ollie snorted, “forget the super powered alien and watch out for the slime weasel human.”

“He wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was he like?”

Words failed him.

As much as he felt compelled to tell Ollie about his experience, he couldn’t think of a way to aptly express being in the same room with Superman.

“Bruce?”

“So powerful you can feel it just when he looks at you,” he finally managed.

“Yeah?” Ollie growled back. “That’s not exactly a surprise. An alien freakshow flying around asking the Martian and the Amazon and the fish king to join his super secret, super friends gang? It’s obvious he’s an asshole.”

“You mean he’s an asshole because he hasn’t asked you.”

“No, he’s an asshole because he hasn’t asked any humans.”

“He asked Alan.”

Ollie huffed petulantly. “Come on, the old man’s basically an alien with that thing inside him.”

“You’re talking about the man who protected Gotham for over forty years, Ollie.”

“Yeah, okay.” Ollie gave him an apologetic kiss. “I only meant the alien’s never asked someone like us to be in his superhero gang. You know, actual humans who can’t shoot laser beams out their ass.”

“Name anyone who shoots laser beams out their ass.”

“You know what I mean. He hasn’t even asked Hal.”

“I wouldn’t ask Hal.”

“You barely know Hal.”

“For which I’m eternally grateful.”

“Fine. You don’t like Hal.” Ollie abruptly turned away to pick up the remote control from the nightstand and turn off the TV before tossing the remote into the darkness and settling down for a kiss. “How about showing who you do like?”

“Hmm,” he considered, taking Ollie’s mouth in a teasing kiss before moving to straddle Ollie’s hips and pinning Ollie to the mattress with the deepest of kisses. But Ollie’s beard was longer than Tony’s, curled at the ends, and he wasn’t used to its soft tickle yet, had to break the kiss sooner than he would have liked and settle for a couple of lighter kisses before replying, “You’re not so bad.”

Cupping his face warmly, Ollie returned the kiss before whispering against his lips, “You know I’m better.”

“Prove it.”

There were thirteen ways he could have stopped Ollie reversing their positions, six ways he could have pinned Ollie to the mattress indefinitely. He chose none of them, just let Ollie roll him over then arched up into Ollie’s body as Ollie took his mouth in a deeply penetrating kiss.

It was strange, but, when Ollie kissed him, Ollie’s beard didn’t bother him at all. In fact, if anything, it felt oddly erotic, as if Ollie’s facial hair was caressing him, and it made him wonder if Ollie practiced it.

“Still waiting for better,” he teased low as Ollie broke the kiss, and Ollie immediately took his mouth in a plundering kiss, took his hardening erection in a firm grip and forced him into a breathless climax that had him pushing up violently into Ollie’s touch.

As the intense pleasure from the unexpected orgasm faded and he collapsed back on the mattress, Ollie smirked down at him, nipped his bottom lip and asked, “Better or the best?”

Ollie didn’t stand a chance.

A split second after the words had left his mouth, he had Ollie down on the mattress, was pinning him there with a harsh kiss while he took Ollie’s already slick erection in hand, stroked it hard and fast for three beats.

Then stopped.

Shuddering below him, Ollie was desperate to climax, tensed so fiercely that every one of Ollie’s fingers dug painfully into his back as Ollie started thrusting up into his hand. It would have been easy to let Ollie bring himself to orgasm, just a few kisses, a few light squeezes in time with Ollie’s thrusts would have done the job. But that wasn’t what he’d planned.

Ignoring Ollie’s ragged rhythm, he created his own rhythm of soft, lingering kisses combined with gentle thumb swipes over the head of Ollie’s erection, soon had Ollie abandoning his thrusts and trembling in anticipation of the next kiss, the next caress. Then, when Ollie was completely at his mercy, existing only in those breathless moments between kisses, he took a rough hold of Ollie’s erection and finished him off in four strokes.

“Clearly not the best,” he told Ollie with a consoling kiss before moving off to lie on the mattress beside him. “Feel free to concede.”

“Concede?” Ollie gasped, still struggling to catch his breath. “You cheated!”

“And you’re a sore loser.” He elbowed up to watch Ollie pant beneath him. “What’s your lung capacity?”

“Why? Are you going to do a sex trick with that too?”

“No.” He leaned over and took Ollie’s mouth in a gentle kiss before smoothing the little curls in Ollie’s beard that were kinking the wrong way. “But I can teach you some breathing exercises.”

“Sounds boring.” Ollie caught his hand and kissed the middle fingers. “Maybe I can spice them up.”

“Maybe you can.”

He kissed Ollie again and then they settled down to sleep, each pretending not to notice that Ollie still had a hold of his hand and, that by accident or design, it had ended up resting directly over Ollie’s heart.

* * * *

The sun had been chasing him across the bed for hours. Whenever he thought he had escaped it, settled down to sleep again, it would start creeping up his body again, warming his legs and then his back before trying to reach his face.

He could have gotten up and closed the blinds, but setting the sun on him was Ollie’s revenge for not showering with him and, in that context, it wasn’t much of a punishment. One morning bout of shower sex with Ollie had taught him that Ollie was fond enough of his ‘arrow’ for both of them.

But now he had run out of mattress.

And the sun was getting hot on his back.

And his stomach was growling.

“I ate your breakfast,” Ollie called through from the suite’s central room, “but if you get up now, you might get lunch.”

An offer he couldn’t refuse.

Rolling out of bed, he glanced around the room for his robe. It wasn’t there. Figuring Ollie had borrowed it and left it sopping wet on the bathroom floor again, he wandered through to the sitting room naked and curled up in the chair nearest the tray of bagels and coffee, which just happened to be at the opposite end of the coffee table from where Ollie sat in his underwear messily making arrows.

“You all set for tonight?” Ollie asked, attaching an incendiary arrowhead to an aluminium composite shaft.

Grabbing a salmon bagel from the tray, he took a bite, chewed and swallowed. “I don’t make batarangs every night, Ollie.”

“Because they’re prosaic?”

“Because they’re reusable.”

“Yeah, I can just see you running along rooftops with a metal detector.” Ollie checked the fletching on the arrow and then put it aside, picked up an industrial polymer arrowhead and began attaching it to another composite shaft. “How long is it going to take?”

“Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.”

“Sounds like Rapunzel’s towers aren’t as secure as he thinks.”

“They’re secure enough.” He finished his first bagel then picked up another. “You know the free clinic closes at three on Tuesdays, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ollie gathered up his arrows then stomped off to get dressed.

He had finished his second bagel and was drinking a cup of coffee while considering eating the last bagel even though it was ham, when Ollie came back dressed in a leather jacket and jeans with the flamingo tucked under one arm.

“Interesting fashion statement,” he commented as Ollie leaned down to steal a drink of coffee and the ham bagel.

“Proving I look good in anything,” Ollie returned with a kiss then turned away. “See you tonight.”

He watched Ollie walk out the door, listened to the elevator leaving the floor, then abandoned the remains of his coffee and headed into the bathroom.

The shower was hot and powerful, just how he liked it, and he washed and shaved in minutes. However, the scent of the hotel’s raspberry shampoo clung to him so persistently he could even smell it through the toothpaste when he was brushing his teeth. Deciding he wasn’t going to stoop as low as the hotel’s obnoxious cologne to get rid of the raspberry stink, he retreated into the bedroom and switched on the TV to listen to the news while--

Superman.

Superman was on TV.

Any thoughts of getting dressed forgotten, he all but collapsed on the bed to watch.

“This isn’t about me,” Superman was saying smoothly while filling up the screen with so much awesome it was ridiculous. “This is about the people of this community, the people of this city. Businessmen like Lex Luthor think they own the cities, but buildings don’t make a city. People do. You do. Your families and your communities are the heart of this city and I’m asking you now to show that heart, to reach out with all the strength, compassion and courage I know you have and save these families.”

Silence.

Even the notoriously rambunctious reporter Snapper Carr seemed awestruck.

“And...uh, how do you propose the city save this community?” Carr finally managed to ask.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Superman answered with beguiling honestly, “but, fortunately for us all, Genevieve Blount has been working with Communities First for over ten years and she has a few ideas. Genevieve?” Superman stepped to the side so the camera briefly focussed on a flustered woman trying to tie back her riot of black hair before shifting back to Superman.

“Why this community, Superman?” Snapper Carr asked. “Why--”

“Why this planet?” another reporter yelled.

“Are there more of you?” someone else shouted.

“Do you like Earth women?” another voice called as the screech of tyres heralded the arrival of other news networks.

“Please speak to Genevieve. Thank you.” Superman nodded at the camera and then took off in a blur.

The camera jumped and Carr swore as they fruitlessly searched the sky for Superman. Then there was some jostling as Carr corralled Genevieve Blount up the steps of a brownstone to keep the other news teams at bay.

“How well do you know Superman?” Carr demanded of the rattled woman. “Where is he from?”

“Are you Superman’s girlfriend?” another reporter bellowed, kicking off a feeding frenzy of speculation about Blount’s relationship with Superman. To her credit, Blount held her ground and answered every rude question with facts about the Varnley Street families until the sensationalists gave up and Carr and a few others were left asking more sensible questions and actually listening to the answers.

As Blount listed the options available to save the endangered community, he got up from the bed to dress, decided his plan of action while pulling on his underwear. He then finished dressing in a mauve shirt, navy suit and navy brocade tie before picking up the bedroom phone and calling Michael while putting on his shoes.

“Holt Holdings Metropolis office. You’re speaking to Carmen, Mr Holt’s Personal Assistant. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Carmen, it’s Bruce. May I speak to Michael?”

“Putting you through now, Mr Wayne,” Carmen replied smartly and the line went quiet for a second before Michael picked up.

“Did you see it? He actually gave an interview!”

“I saw it,” he returned, “and it gave me an idea.”

“An idea that keeps you out of Luthor’s firing range?”

“Not quite.”

“Then you need a new idea.”

“It’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m just calling to push back the meeting a little.”

“How little?”

“Forty minutes?”

“Forty minutes I can do but that’s it. If you’re not here before those little doughnuts are gone, my R&D guys will be gone and we’ll have to rearrange.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Remember, if we’re late for dinner, you’re explaining it to Paula.”

“I’d say I wasn’t afraid of your wife but you know that’s not true, so I’ll just say keep watching that news channel,” he replied then ended the call.

Walking out the bedroom, he fished his wallet out of last night’s suit jacket, which was still lying on the sitting room floor, before heading out the suite. He was in the elevator when he had second thoughts about the mauve shirt. Was he supposed to have worn it with the charcoal suit? That rang a vague bell. Hell! He was going to be on TV in navy and mauve and Alfred wasn’t going to forgive him for a week. Damn shirts. Well, he concluded as the elevator doors opened to the grand extravagance of the hotel lobby, at least it was afternoon so he wasn’t committing the unforgivable sin of wearing a coloured shirt in the morning.

“Good afternoon, Mr Wayne,” Richards, a hotel butler, greeted him graciously before his eyes fell upon the mauve shirt. “If you are ready for your afternoon appointment,” Richards went on as if he didn’t think he could possibly be ready wearing that shirt, “Littlejohn, your chauffeur, has brought your car to the door.”

“Thank you, Richards.” He nodded and then strode down the lobby before more butlers could step out from behind the white pillars and potted plants to disapprove of him.

“Good afternoon, Mr Wayne,” the surprisingly petite female driver of the Town Car assigned to him greeted him amusedly while opening the rear passenger door. “I’ll have you at Business Centre One in no time.”

Wondering if she was in on the mauve shirt disapproval campaign, he just nodded and climbed into the car, didn’t correct her until she was pulling out of the hotel driveway onto Hob’s Boulevard. “Actually, Ms Littlejohn,” he addressed her via the rearview mirror, “I’d like to make a stop before Centre One.”

She nodded. “Name it, Mr Wayne.”

“Suicide Slum.”

Catching her eye in the mirror, he knew she knew why he wanted to go there but she made no comment, just nodded again. “Varnley Street it is.”

She was as good as her word and a few minutes on River Expressway brought them to the north end of Suicide Slum, mere seconds from Varnley Street. Or it would have been if not for the media circus blocking their way.

“Park down the block and I’ll find you,” he told her, climbing out the car.

“With all due respect, Mr Wayne,” Littlejohn returned, getting out the car and locking it, “you’re booked to go to Business Centre One and you’re not getting out of my sight until I deliver you there.”

He frowned at her resolve. “You make me sound like a pizza, Ms Littleton.”

“Littlejohn, Mr Wayne, and I assure you you’re a diamond.”

Leaving it there, he let her follow him through the bustle of reporters, news crews, residents and bystanders all hoping for another glimpse of Superman. In fact, people were so busy looking for Superman they didn’t recognise him until he was on Varnley Street itself barely ten feet away from where Genevieve Blount was giving an interview to Channel Ten News.

“Mr Wayne!” Snapper Carr saw him before anyone else and was corralling him up the nearest brownstone steps before any other reporters could react. “Here to see the big man in blue?”

“You don’t think he’s coming back, do you?” he returned, pantomiming frowning up at the sky.

“So why are you here, Mr Wayne? Do you support Lex Luthor’s plan?”

He blinked at Carr. “Plan for what?”

“Varnley Street.”

“Oh, of course!” He smiled at the camera. “I think it’s a great idea.”

Carr scowled. “You think making hundreds of vulnerable families homeless is a great idea?”

“No!” He feigned surprise at Carr’s aggression. “But they’re not going to be homeless for long, are they?”

Carr looked at the camera then looked back at him. “Mr Wayne, I don’t think you’re quite grasping the situation here. These families can’t afford to find another home. They can’t even afford enough land to pitch a tent.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m giving it to them.” He smiled at the camera again. His face was starting to hurt and, judging by the expression on Carr’s face, Carr’s brain was hurting too.

“Uh, can you explain that?”

“Well, it seems I’ve been a bit of a dolt.”

“You have?” Carr looked at the camera and then back at him again.

“Yes, Lex has been trying to buy the old Kane-Christie Stables land from me and I’m afraid I’ve been dragging my heels a little. But last night I had dinner with Lex and he assured me that selling the land to him would be the right thing to do and this morning I realised why.”

He paused to smile at the camera, took so long looking at his reflection in the lens that Carr had to push him to continue.

“What was it you realised, Mr Wayne?”

“Oh, that Lex doesn’t want to see these families destitute any more than the rest of us so I don’t see why he should foot the whole bill for rehousing them.”

“Right.” Carr gave the camera another look. “So what’s the plan?”

“I’m donating the Kane-Christie Stables land to Ms Blount’s charity.”

“You heard it here first, folks!” Carr announced loud enough for half the street to hear. “Bruce Wayne is donating thirty acres of prime Park Ridge real estate to Communities First!”

At Carr’s breaking news, the crowd began to buzz with excitement, got so loud he had to shout over the noise to conclude, “And I’m also pledging to pay half the building costs of the rehousing and committing the Wayne Foundation to building and maintaining facilities for the new Park Ridge community.”

“What facilities?”

“What gave Luthor the change of heart?”

“Are you trying to impress Superman?”

“Are you trying to steal Superman?”

“Is that what you’re wearing this season?”

“Why did you break up with Carolyn Brown?”

“Is Carolyn pregnant?”

“Mauve and navy? Really?”

“Is it true you’re dating Leah Fielding?”

“Is Leah pregnant?”

“Over here, Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne!”

Deciding he was really going to have to change his surname to ‘Silence-Please’ at some point, he fought his way through the crowd to Genevieve Blount, shook her hand and promised to have the paperwork sent over to her office in the morning. She blinked at him in stunned silence while the reporters jostled around them and then she suddenly engulfed him in a huge hug that the news cameras took shots of from all angles.

Job done.

Now he just had to get out of here...which was easier said than done. Especially with Ms Blount hanging on to him.

“Uh, this way, Mr Wayne,” a pleasantly even baritone said from behind him, but it was too faltering and midwestern to be of any interest so he ignored it. Then a large hand came to rest on the small of his back, began guiding him away from Blount, away from the rabid reporters, and into a group of residents. As the wall of residents closed around them, cutting off the pursuing reporters in what could only be described as a rearguard movement, he was pushed down a narrow side alley by the biggest farm boy in the cheapest suit he had ever seen.

“I’m sorry, Mr Wayne, but I had no time to explain what was happening,” the monolithic farm boy puffed while squeezing past him to lead the way down the alley. “Your chauffer informed me you had an appointment to get to, so I suggested she bring your car around to the bottom of Dagger’s Wynd while I asked Mrs Beech and Mr Warren to ask their neighbours to lend a hand. I’m sorry I had to manhandle you a little there.” The farm boy glanced back at him apologetically while pushing the world’s ugliest spectacles up his nose. “I hope you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” He studied the broad shoulders of the man walking in front of him. He remembered that back. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Kent. You work with Lois Lane.”

“That’s right.” Kent nodded but didn’t glance round again. “I’ve been covering this story since, well, before it was a story. I have a friend who lives nearby and--”

Perfect, he’d been rescued by the most boring man on the planet. “Thanks, Kent, but I don’t have time to give you an exclusive,” he said, squeezing past the solid bulk of farm boy and moving on ahead. “Why don’t you head back and get your story?”

“Don’t worry, Mr Wayne.” Kent pursued him down the alley. “I’ve got my story and I promised Miss Littlejohn I’d get you back to her safe and sound.”

Today it seemed he was everybody’s business, but he couldn’t very well show a reporter he knew how to find such an obscure street as Dagger’s Wynd through the network of Suicide Slum’s back alleys, so he deliberately went straight ahead at the first alley junction instead of turning right. To his surprise, Kent followed him without a word. Wonderful. Now he was going to be wandering around Oz with Dorothy instead of catching that meeting with Michael’s nanotech team.

“I don’t think Genevieve got a chance to thank you properly back there, Mr Wayne,” Kent continued in a tone so conscientious it belonged to another era and he tried to recall if Kansas was thirty or forty years behind the rest of the world as Kent went on, “so I’d like to thank you now on behalf of all the Varnley Street residents who--”

“I hear seagulls,” he interrupted, stopping dead in his tracks so Kent almost walked into him.

“Excuse me?” Kent almost growled.

“Seagulls,” he repeated. “I hear seagulls.” He turned and tried to meet Kent’s gaze but Kent ducked his head and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Doesn’t that mean we’re going the wrong way?”

“Um....” Kent frowned around at the rooftops then blinked in realisation. “You’re right! I guess that’s what happens when you don’t pay attention.” Kent bumped past him a little too forcefully and didn’t bother apologising. “This way.” Kent strode off down the alley.

This farm boy reporter was getting on his last nerve, but at least they were heading in the right direction and Kent didn’t seem inclined to babble at him anymore.

“There you are!” Littlejohn appeared in the alley as they neared the bottom of Dagger’s Wynd. “What did you do? Get stuck in a trashcan?”

Kent winced and looked abashed, but he didn’t have time for Kent’s blushes, just roughly pushed past him and followed Littlejohn to the car.

“I would appreciate that exclusive one day, Mr Wayne!” Kent called to him from the mouth of the alley as he climbed into the backseat.

Yeah, and Superman might give him an exclusive one day too.

* * * *

“You said you’d be back by midnight,” Ollie growled as soon as he opened the suite door and saw Ollie sitting on the couch, suited up with bow and full quiver. “Let me guess, the woman Michael’s wife tried to hook you up with wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

“Something like that.” He let the suite door close behind him, kicked off his shoes and socks while stripping off his suit jacket, tie and shirt. “But I think Paula would argue with your choice of words.”

Ollie gave a derisive snort. “That woman’s so cantankerous she’d argue with herself.”

“You called her Lucrezia, Ollie.”

“I was drunk! I meant Lucretia, as in Coffin Mott.”

“And you wonder why you have problems with women,” he returned, walking into the bedroom.

“Hey!” Ollie followed him and leaned against the doorjamb to watch him pull his suitcase out from the bottom of the closet. “Women love me.”

“The ones who don’t speak English, maybe,” he conceded, placing his suitcase on the bed and opening the secret partition in its base to reveal his suit and boots.

Ollie watched him strip off his trousers and pull on the bottom half of the suit with a smirk. “You’re forgetting I speak French and Japanese too.”

“No,” he corrected then paused to pull the top of his suit over his head before concluding, “the only thing worse than your French is your Japanese.”

“Urayamu ka?”

Suit in place, he sat down on the bed to put on his boots. “Not jealous, honest. Hontou.”

“I knew that.” Ollie stepped forward to grab his metal briefcase out from under the bed and throw it on the mattress beside him. “I can’t believe you still use a briefcase to stash your gear. Didn’t that go out in the seventies?”

“They didn’t have briefcases like this in the seventies,” he returned, securing his boots then turning to the briefcase and popping open the hidden compartments to reveal his cape, cowl and utility belt.

“Wayne, Bruce Wayne,” Ollie quipped.

Ignoring Ollie’s amusement, he finished dressing then kicked both cases under the bed. “We’ll use the second rendezvous point at the Pinehurst Gallery,” he said, stepping over to the window and opening it wide. “Don’t be late.”

If Ollie responded, he didn’t hear because, a split second later, the air was rushing past him as he freefell four storeys before shooting a line to catch the flagpole on the Larayian Embassy across the street. Then it was a simple matter of grappling, running and jumping the two miles of rooftops between the hotel and Lexcorp. Well, in Gotham it would have been simple. In Metropolis, he had to make various detours due to a battery of spotlights, sheer glass walls, pointless spheres and inverted spires that drove him down to street level more times than he cared to admit. Add to that the fact that Metropolis’ streetlights were so poorly constructed that they bent under the slightest force, and it was no surprise that he came swinging off Century Building towards Lexcorp Towers nearly one minute behind schedule.

As if confirming that Metropolis loathed him with its every molecule, he landed on the slanted roof of Lexcorp’s west tower at an awkward angle, slid down the sheer steel for three feet before he could pull a serrated batarang out of its belt compartment and jump onto the east tower. He hit the slanting steel of the second roof at a better angle but it was still slick from the evening rain and he slid for ten feet before he could dig the batarang into the steel hard enough to slow his descent and turn towards the north edge of the building. Making an easy leap, he caught the edge of the roof with his free hand, used the batarang to cleave a hole through the ventilation grille just below the roofline and then bent out enough of the metal wire for him to crawl into the shaft.

“I’m in,” he said low into his cowl’s comm link while bringing his palmtop computer out of its belt compartment and pinpointing his exact position in the ventilation system. “Where are you?”

“On the train approaching West River Pier,” Ollie answered with the wind howling around him. “I can see Monarch Stadium from here.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Not even a red bootie.”

“Change that.” He tucked the palmtop away and ended the call, weaved his way down the ventilation system to the HVAC hub directly above Lex’s private server room. Over the hum of the cooling units, he could hear three men talking below him. Time to put Lex’s new fire retardant system to the test.

While the guards and the computer technician discussed the Monarch’s next game against the Knights, he turned to the control panel on his right and closed the server room’s airflow system. He then crossed to the tanks of inert gases on the east wall and overrode the fire control protocols, made the tanks pump nitrogen and carbon dioxide into the server room.

Twenty-one seconds later, the guards were having trouble breathing, realised something had gone wrong with the oxygen reducers and rushed the technician out the room.

Ten seconds after that, the guards had consulted security control and the fire alarm was triggered, locking the server room down and removing any evidence of his tampering.

With the guards and technician exactly where he wanted them, he left the HVAC hub and climbed back into the ventilation system, took off his cape and cowl at the next junction then climbed down the north vertical shaft until he judged he was level with the server room floor. He then pried open the section of metal sheeting in front of him, bent it back until there was enough space for him to wriggle up into the space between the pressure pads under the server room floor. It was such a tight squeeze that he had to exhale all the air from his lungs to make it, but then he was pushing the floor tile above him up off its pressure pad and easing up into the room.

Lex was too paranoid to have cameras in his server room, but he couldn’t put the liberated floor tile down anywhere anyway and holding it up to shield his face from where the cameras would have been felt right. Using his free hand to plug his palmtop’s USB connector into the nearest server’s receptacle, he let the palmtop do all the work, first using a sniffer program to locate Lex’s data stream then piggybacking on it back to Lex’s files before initiating the search program to find then copy the relevant data.

It took seconds.

But seconds were all he had.

Just moments before Lex’s rather good network security system would have recognised the breach, he removed the USB connector and tucked the palmtop away. He then slipped back under the floor, pulled the floor tile snugly back into place with a small pair of suction cups, and wriggled back into the vertical shaft. It took him almost a minute to get every hint of creasing out of the section of metal sheeting he’d bent, but he managed to leave it looking relatively unmolested. His cape and cowl were where he had left them and he slipped them on again before making his way back through the ventilation system to the roofline grille. He had climbed back outside, was hanging quite comfortably from the roof parapet with one hand while bending the wire of the grille back into place with the other, when a gust of wind hit him, a wind that was blowing in the opposite direction of the night breeze.

Before the wind could even begin to wane, he pulled himself up and somersaulted backwards off the parapet, shot a line for the nearest corner of the rooftop and swung around the tower to land crouching on top edge of the roof, facing Superman.

“I suppose your friend toppled that freight train into the West River to keep me occupied while you did this,” Superman said in that perfect voice, but this time the accompanying growl was different, deeper, somehow more emotional. “You’re both lucky no one was hurt.”

He didn’t comment, didn’t bother pointing out that Ollie had just stopped another huge arms shipment being moved through Metropolis from Coastal City. There was no need. That extra emotion in Superman’s voice was probably shame.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you both to the police right now!” Superman snapped at his silence. “Burglary is a crime even for you, Mr Wayne.”

Reality warped at the sound of his name, narrowed to a pinhole then spiralled out around him, twisted with the wind whipping at his cape, thundered up his throat with his hammering heart.

He knew the odds, knew that one day someone would discover his secret, but nothing had prepared him for it. Telling himself it was the ultimate test, that if he could get through this then he could get through anything, helped nothing.

And the anger surprised him.

No matter how perfectly calm his façade, how perfectly he held his balance on the thin edge of the roof as reality unfurled around him, the immense fury inside him was forcing him to lash out, forcing him to attack Superman in the same way Superman had attacked him.

But he was no Superman.

He couldn’t look at someone and compare their unique lip print to all the other people he had seen that day and...that day? Could it be that simple? Was Superman only recognising him now because it was the first time he had seen both Bruce Wayne and Batman up close? It was a long shot but he was too blind with the need to strike back to care, focussed on the only person he had met that day whose physique was anything even close to Superman’s and snarled, “If you’re not careful, getting that exclusive will be the least of your worries, Kent.”

Flinch.

Superman actually flinched!

He’d been right.

He’d called a damp squib a supernova and he’d been right!

But how? How did Superman do it? Even now, even looking at Superman from barely fourteen feet away, he could see no resemblance to Clark Kent at all.

It couldn’t be just the flight, just the suit, just the body language, just the sense of power. There had to be something more, something intangible, something...aura.

There was a palpable aura.

Here, under the night sky, it was weaker, almost like it was fading, but, in Lex’s sanctum yesterday, it truly did feel like sunlight.

Sunlight.

Suddenly he had his answer, had an answer to it all, had to push his luck and gamble one last time.

“As for the train, that was the third shipment through Metropolis so you can hardly throw stones. The fact that it delayed your response to the fire alarm was a bonus not a goal. Given the source of your powers,” he continued, studying Superman intently, “I wouldn’t have thought you enjoyed being out at night.”

There was no flinch this time, just a slightly slowed blink and a fleeting flash of red in those clear blue eyes.

Another victory.

But this was dangerous.

He was, quite literally, playing with lasers.

“I don’t approve of your methods,” Superman growled at him. “I don’t approve of your attitude or behaviour and I don’t want you in Metropolis. Leave. Tonight. And make sure Green Arrow goes with you.”

“Green Arrow goes where he likes,” he returned low, “and so do I.”

“No,” Superman corrected with another threatening flash of laser red, “Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen go where they like. Batman and Green Arrow stay out of Metropolis.”

And that was it.

Before he could even consider responding, an unthinkably strong gust of wind shoved him off the roof and he was falling fast, too fast, almost too fast to gauge the distance to the radio mast on top of Commerce Court, almost too fast to focus on his target, get his body to align with his head and shoot a line for the mast. The grapple found its target, but it was on a peripheral strut that soon gave way. Having only succeeded in slowing his descent, he abandon the line, ended up hitting the advertising billboard on the Exchange West building almost hard enough to break his right seventh and eighth ribs before shooting a line for the Bank Of China’s flagpole and swinging down to the nearest streetlight in Exchange Square.

His descent may have been a clumsy disaster but his landing was perfectly judged and he crouched on top of the streetlight with absolute grace despite the sharply throbbing pain in his right side. He needed to get an icepack on those ribs, but that would have to wait. Looking up at Lexcorp’s east tower, he saw Superman was still there, watching him. Then, quicker than a blink, Superman flew away.

Nice.

“Bruce!” Ollie shouted down the comm link and he could hear Ollie breathing hard, knew Ollie was running to him. “You better not be--”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, retrieving the icepack dressing from its belt compartment and breaking the tube of ammonium nitrate inside it. “No need to rush.”

“Did he hit you?”

“If he hit me I wouldn’t be here.” He lifted the top of his suit and applied the dressing to his ribs, couldn’t help but hiss at the sudden jolt of freezing cold.

“Bruce?”

“I told you I’m fine,” he ground out, gritting his teeth as the dressing seemed to go from glacially cold to searing hot.

“Yeah, you looked fine when you flew off that roof ass over--”

“I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point.”

Ending the call, he pulled the top of his suit carefully down over the dressing and stood up on the streetlight, shot a line up to the nearest corner of Metropolis’ monumental city hall. The grapple snagged a massive statue of a founding father and he swung across Exchange Square, shot another line to the Standard Life building and swung down Bristow then made his way across Willow Park to Chancery. From Chancery, he cut down Murray Plaza, leapt onto the roof of the St Martin’s Island night train at Olivier Bridge and rode it as far as Hob’s Station before shooting a line to the Mount Royal Hotel and swinging onto the roof of the Pinehurst Gallery.

Knowing Ollie would have caught the Midtown train at St Andrews Street station, he wasn’t surprised to land and find Ollie lounging against the air conditioning duct on the east corner of the roof. However, he was surprised by the uneasy look on Ollie’s face.

“Superman was a likely variable and I only bruised a couple of ribs,” he reassured, walking up to Ollie while pulling his palmtop computer out of its belt compartment. “Give me your micro drive.” He held his right hand out for the mini USB flash drive while queuing up the data from Lex’s server.

Ollie dug the drive out of the pouch on his belt and handed it over without a word.

Plugging the drive into his palmtop, he watched Ollie frown uncomfortably as he transferred the data before commenting lightly, “This would be a bad time to admit you asked me for the wrong files.”

“I didn’t!” Ollie returned in surprise. “If you used the Graylar Investments root they should be exactly what I need.”

“I know. I was joking.” He watched the last file transfer before unplugging the micro drive and handing it back to Ollie. “What’s wrong?”

Ollie put the drive back in his pouch with a decidedly guilty air. “Dick called while you were with Holt.”

“And?”

“If you had come back when you said you would, I would have--”

“What did he say, Ollie?” he demanded, and Ollie met his gaze with an irritated glare.

“I’m not your message boy, Bruce, and it’s not my fault Dent escaped the happy farm while you were playing footsie with Lucrezia’s date.”

Harvey--

Just last week he had visited Harvey, had played their usual game of chess, and Harvey had been fine. Absolutely fine. Yes, he’d been critical of his treatment, frustrated by his lack of progress and had freely insulted every asylum guard that had passed their chess table, but he’d been Harvey. Not Two-Face. It didn’t make sense for him to suddenly--

“Okay, I guess I should have told you as soon as you got back,” Ollie admitted, rubbing the back of his neck ashamedly, “but it’s not as if you could have done anything until now anyway and--”

“When?” he snapped, and this time Ollie just gave him a doleful look.

“A little after seven, a guard realised Dent wasn’t in the TV room and went looking, found two guards who were supposed to have gone off shift beaten unconscious in Dent’s cell. Arkham claims they have no idea how Dent escaped but the kid reckons he got down into the laundry room in a guard’s uniform then terrified a laundry assistant into getting him out in the laundry truck.”

“Who was hurt?”

“Just the guards.”

“How badly?”

Ollie scowled. “Don’t go all heartbeat under the floorboards, Bruce. These guys--”

“How badly?”

“One might not walk again. Happy?”

Turning his back on Ollie, he walked towards the northwest corner of the building putting his palmtop back in its belt compartment and readying his grapple.

He heard Ollie follow him across the roof, wasn’t surprised when Ollie caught hold of his right forearm just as he was about to step up onto the parapet.

“So what’s the plan?”

“You go home. I find Harvey.”

Ollie’s grip tightened on his forearm. “I can help.”

“No.” He looked back at Ollie, eased Ollie’s hand away then held it for a second before saying softly, “Harvey’s my problem. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Ollie drew breath to speak but he couldn’t look at Ollie any longer, shot a line over to the Hamstead Bridge pylon and swung off down Angle Park towards Hob’s Square. As he crossed the square, he knew Ollie was watching him, knew Ollie was considering-- Who was he kidding? Ollie wasn’t considering anything. Ollie was going to get in that ridiculous Arrowcar and drive directly to Gotham no matter what he said because that’s who Ollie was. Ollie never--

Leave it.

Ollie would wait.

Focussing on Harvey, he opened a link to the cave as he turned onto Bay Drive.

“Boy, am I glad to hear from you,” Dick answered almost before the call was fully established. “The cops are going crazy trying keep this hushed up while they pull in every goon Dent ever spoke to and raid every place Dent ever looked at.”

“Because that’s going to work,” he growled while swinging across Ponte Boulevard. “Okay, TV room to laundry truck,” he went on as he landed on the roof of his hotel. “Give me the full chain of events.”

There was a brief pause in which he could almost hear Dick shrugging. “TV room, guards, laundry room, laundry truck is all I could piece together. The only new evidence is the laundry guy’s statement. He says he thinks Dent bailed as early as the Bypass because when he finally got up the nerve to look in the back at the Harbour, Dent was long gone.”

“Initiate a computer search,” he ordered while attaching a grapple line to the air conditioning unit nearest the edge of the roof. “Use all reported crimes within a mile radius of the laundry truck’s route as your parameter,” he continued, setting the grapple line on slow release before stepping over the roof edge and descending towards his open bedroom window.

Dick had finished tapping the details into the computer by the time he’d climbed in the window and so he wound in the grapple line then waited a second before asking, “What do you have?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing, nada and zilch,” Roy clarified.

He’d forgotten Roy was staying over.

“Fine.” He took off his belt and threw it down on the mattress. “Go to bed.”

“But I can help,” Dick pleaded. “Bruce Wayne went to Metropolis so you’ll have to come back as Bruce and that’ll take hours. I can--”

“You can help yourself by getting some sleep and passing that trigonometry test so you don’t get grounded,” he finished and Roy sniggered.

“Aw, it’s little Dickie bird’s bedtime.”

“Yours too, little arrow,” he told Roy and Dick laughed.

“Aw, little arrow needs his nap.”

“At least I--”

“Enough,” he growled. “Bed.”

“But--”

“Now!”

“Okay,” Dick sighed and there was a short bout of bustling and whispering before Roy stomped out of the computer bay. “He’s gone.”

“Why aren’t you gone?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Knowing what was coming he growled, “What time?”

“Alfred said he didn’t give one. Just said something about you being legally obligated to sell to family first and that she’d be coming with her lawyers tomorrow morning. Looks like she really wants that land, Bruce.”

Trying to keep the bitter anger out of his voice, he returned low, “That stipulation was for Kanes only and if she watched the news she’d know the land’s already gone.”

“I don’t think she believes that.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I’ll be at school tomorrow. Anyone Alfred calls a ‘vile harridan’ is not on my top ten list of people to meet.”

“Forget her. Just concentrate on passing that test.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Dick.”

“See you tomorrow with my pass paper!”

Smiling at Dick’s dogged optimism, he ended the call and took off his cape and cowl, but couldn’t follow his own advice and forget his grasping great aunt. Even as he pulled his briefcase out from under the bed and tucked his belt, cowl and cape away in their hidden compartments, he clearly remembered standing in the parlour on the day of his parents’ funeral, could almost feel the gentle warmth of Alfred’s hands on his shoulders even as his great aunt’s disapproving gaze crushed him down to nothing before she rejected him, told Alfred he was too old for mothering, was old enough for boarding school, was old enough to--

No.

Leave it in the past where it belonged.

Kicking off his boots, he pushed away all thoughts of her and stripped off his suit, fished the suitcase out from under the bed and put them away in their secret partition. Slipping out of his underwear, he then headed into the bathroom, peeled off the icepack dressing and flushed it before taking a quick shower and an even quicker rub dry.

He had gotten the last faint scent of cowl out of his hair on a hotel towel, had put on fresh underwear and the charcoal suit trousers, was just pulling the white shirt on over his damp skin, when he remembered he still had clothes strewn around the sitting room to pack. Muttering that next time he’d save himself the bother and just pack Alfred, he opened the door to the sitting room and...stopped.

Everything stopped.

Frozen in time, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t even blink.

“I missed you today, baby,” Harvey said softly, stood up from the couch to beckon him forwards, and then he couldn’t stop blinking, couldn’t breathe as his heart skipped a beat because time hadn’t stopped, it had rolled back.

Yes, the scars were still there, marring the left side of Harvey’s face, compressing the skin around his eye and thickening the corner of his mouth, but the Harvey standing before him in the midnight blue suit was the real Harvey, his Harvey, the man that had held him spellbound that night on Lawson Street, the man he would always love.

“Come here,” Harvey told him, and he wanted to go to Harvey so badly he could almost forget what Harvey had done, what Harvey had become.

Almost.

“You can’t be here,” he choked out as he stepped forwards. “You can’t--”

Movement.

He couldn’t turn in time to see the punch coming but he felt the rush of air, knew a fist was going to connect just below his right ear as sure as he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. Then the fist was slamming into his neck and his entire body was reeling, going numb even before the darkness could swallow him.

* * * *

He was seventeen and walking down the plush penthouse corridor of the Paris Ritz, was walking in utter terror towards Marcel Boucher’s room.

Boucher had already turned him down twice that night, had told him to run back home to his diamond cradle and hide under his baby blanket. This would be his last chance at Boucher, his last chance at everything.

Yes, there were other fighters in the world, those who were as skilled as Boucher, those who were undefeated like Boucher, but even those formidable men spoke Boucher’s name in hushed tones. Boucher was the best and he didn’t have time for anything less.

Standing outside Boucher’s room door, he took a deep breath then held it for a second before knocking once, twice, three times.

Silence.

Then there was a thud from inside the room and guttural cursing so savage it sent shivers down his spine. But he didn’t move, stood his ground even when a shirtless Boucher yanked open the door and glared disgustedly down at him.

Drunk.

Even without the stench of alcohol wafting out the room, he could tell by Boucher’s bloodshot eyes and slightly wavering stance that the huge man had not stopped drinking since leaving the bar some three hours before.

Angry.

Boucher was a mean drunk, everyone had said. Stay clear as soon as he picks up a glass, they had told him, and it was plain to see why. At six foot seven and two hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle, Boucher was already the stuff of nightmares. Add to that the uncontrolled fury of an alcoholic haze, and Boucher looked like he’d stepped straight out of hell.

But there was no turning back.

As soon as Boucher started swearing at him, telling him to leave in no uncertain terms, he ducked and dodged past Boucher’s bulk, slipped into the hotel room. But he didn’t get far. Boucher may have been drunk but he was still incredibly fast and an eighty-three inch reach was never a disadvantage. He’d barely got to the foot of the bed when Boucher caught him by the hair, began dragging him back towards the door.

Resist but don’t hit, he told himself through the pain, through the desperate fight to brace himself against the wall, against the furniture, against the doorjamb. His arms and legs were aching like never before by the time Boucher gave up trying to throw him out the room and threw him on the bed with a frustrated roar. Then Boucher was on top of him, was slapping him across the face, jabbing him in the ribs, telling him he was a child, a spoiled little boy who didn’t know what pain was. He didn’t argue, didn’t resist until Boucher grabbed him by the hair again, tried to drag him towards the door again.

No!

Boucher had already hurt him but he couldn’t fail, wouldn’t fail, twisted and struggled in Boucher’s grasp even when his shirt tore and his jacket was ripped from his shoulders. He wasn’t surprised when Boucher gave up again, roared again, threw him on the bed and began slapping and jabbing him while tearing the remains of his shirt from his body. But after getting rid of his shirt, Boucher moved down and ripped off his trousers and underwear, grabbed his genitals in one hand and twisted, snarled at him through the agony that he wasn’t a man, that he would never--

He startled awake to pain, danger and darkness, saw a large figure looming over him and realised he was tied flat on his back to a bed, bound to the frame by his wrists and ankles. But Boucher had thrown him around like a rag doll not tied him down, and he was lying on a broken down bed in a dilapidated warehouse not a--

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Harvey said softly from above him, caressed his face, kissed him. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Closing his eyes, he turned away from Harvey, remembered why his ribs were so sore, why he had a painful bruise beneath his right ear, concentrated on slowing his breathing, on recalling every detail of Harvey’s escape.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Harvey sighed, began stroking his neck just below the bruise. “I just want to talk.”

He pulled at his wrist restraints, determined they were strips of material ripped from the grotty sheet he lay upon, then growled, “So untie me.”

“Not yet.” Harvey stroked down from his neck to his chest then pushed aside his open shirt to expose his bruised ribs. “What happened?” Harvey traced the outline of the bruise lightly with one fingertip. “Was it Luthor?”

Opening his eyes, he turned to watch Harvey by the starlight coming through the broken slats of the warehouse’s old crane door. “No.”

“No?” Harvey began thumbing the bruise, not hard enough to add to the pain but hard enough for him to feel the exact pressure of every stroke. “I know you had dinner with him. Did you fuck him?”

The TV room.

The TV room had been the key all along.

“No.”

“No?” Harvey snarled, pressed his ribs so hard he lost his breath to the excruciating torture. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Fuck off!”

“Fuck off?”

Harvey was suddenly on top of him, straddling his hips and grabbing his hair, taking hold of his jaw so he couldn’t move his head. He knew what was coming next but nothing prepared him for the savagely punishing kiss Harvey made him take. Then, instead of breaking the kiss, Harvey forced his jaw open, deepened the kiss so harshly the inside of his bottom lip split against his teeth. Harvey then licked at the blood, sucked at the cut before letting go of his hair and shoving the barrel of a pistol so far into his mouth he gagged.

“You don’t tell me to fuck off,” Harvey snarled in his left ear as he choked on the taste of blood and gun oil. “You don’t blow me off to fuck a scumbag and you don’t laugh at me on TV. Understand?”

He tried to turn his head, tried to get the pistol out of his mouth, but Harvey grabbed his hair again, held him down.

“Yeah, I know you do.” Harvey kissed the left corner of his mouth, lightly tongued the left side of his bottom lip. “You’re a little rich bitch but you’re not dumb.”

He stopped resisting, let Harvey move his head, let Harvey kiss the other side of his mouth, let Harvey lick at the cut on his lip, let Harvey suck at the blood no matter how hotly it stung.

“Little whore,” Harvey growled with a nip on his bloody lip. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

He held still, let Harvey’s tongue thrust into his mouth down the side of the pistol barrel. Then Harvey was easing the pistol out of his mouth, was owning his mouth with a deeply dominating kiss that held him captive in a way the gun never could.

“Lying bitch,” Harvey whispered hoarsely against his lips while trailing the gun muzzle down his chest to tease his left nipple. “I should shoot your lying heart out.”

Swallowing a mouthful of bloody saliva, he was just about to speak when Harvey yanked on his hair, made him tip his face back and expose his throat.

“Do that again.”

He did as he was told, felt Harvey’s mouth suck hotly on his throat as he swallowed for the second time. Then, as Harvey licked down his throat to his suprasternal notch, he said low, “I didn’t lie. I told you I had a meeting and couldn’t visit this week.”

“Lie by omission!” Harvey jammed the muzzle of the pistol under his chin so forcefully his teeth snapped shut. “You didn’t tell me you’d be fucking Luthor.”

“I didn’t fuck Luthor,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “I told you I had a meeting and I went to the meeting.”

“At Luthor’s.”

“At Holt Holdings.”

“Holt,” Harvey sneered. “I bet you put on a show for him too.”

He said nothing and Harvey withdrew the pistol from his chin, moved back to licking the base of his throat and teasing his left nipple with the pistol muzzle. Then Harvey’s fingers loosened their hold in his hair, began combing it back into place as Harvey kissed a path down his chest to his stomach.

“I made a deal with Holt that will undermine Luthor’s hold on nanotech in Metropolis,” he said, ignoring Harvey moving down the bed to nip and suck at his stomach muscles. “And the only fucking I did with Luthor was screwing him out a land deal.”

Harvey gave a non-committal grunt, sat up, lay the pistol on his stomach and began unbuttoning their trousers.

“Don’t, Harvey,” he growled, feeling as if the cold weight of the pistol on his stomach was pushing down on his heart.

Harvey ignored him.

“I’m saying no,” he snapped, twisting his hips to throw Harvey’s fingers off his fly and knock the pistol onto the right side of the mattress.

This time Harvey stopped, met his gaze for a long moment before saying softly, “You didn’t fuck Luthor, did you?”

“What was your first clue?”

Frowning, Harvey left the pistol where it had fallen and moved back up the bed, lay down on his left side and reached over to untie his right hand.

“I missed you, baby,” Harvey told him with a soft kiss on his swollen lower lip. “You’re the only thing that made it bearable.” Harvey kissed down the left side of his jaw, whispered in his ear, “You taste so good.”

“Harvey--”

“Shh.” Harvey kissed his lower lip again then whispered, “I waited for you. I thought your meeting might get cancelled and you’d come anyway but you never showed.” Harvey freed his right hand from the restraints only to take it in a firm hold, kiss the palm then suck his pulse at the wrist. “You’re so beautiful,” Harvey continued, moving to kiss down his jaw again while forcing his hand down his body.

He knew what Harvey wanted, let Harvey manipulate his hand into taking Harvey’s erection out of his underwear, let Harvey manipulate him into squeezing his erection, into stroking it slowly but firmly.

“God, that’s good, baby,” Harvey gasped by his ear. “You’re so good.” Harvey sucked the corner of his jaw, kissed down his neck. “Don’t stop.”

He let Harvey quicken the strokes, felt Harvey hold his breath. A moment later, Harvey was shuddering against him as warm spurts of Harvey’s semen spattered across his stomach.

“I love you, baby.” Harvey kissed up his jaw again, tried to kiss his lip again.

“You shouldn’t have escaped.” He turned his head away, freed his right hand from Harvey’s and reached up to unwind the material of the right restraint from the bed frame. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I missed you.”

“What happened, Harvey?” he demanded, finally freeing the strip of material and bundling it up in his hand to wipe Harvey’s semen from his body. “Tell me.”

Harvey watched him clean up then reluctantly tucked away his softening erection and buttoned up his trousers. “I did miss you.”

“I know.”

“I was waiting for you but you didn’t show.”

“And?”

“And the hyenas were ragging on me all through dinner,” Harvey admitted quietly. “Then I saw you on that crappy family news show they make us watch and I couldn’t stand it. I walked out, went back to my room, and a couple of Neanderthals followed me, tried to teach me a lesson.”

He blinked at Harvey, let Harvey give him a soft kiss. “The guards hit you?”

“They tried.” Harvey stroked his face, kissed him again. “But I wasn’t in the mood to play.”

He tucked the strip of material into his right trouser pocket, reached up and stroked the right side of Harvey’s face with the back of his hand. “You should have told me.”

“It was only the two of them.” Harvey caught his hand and kissed the middle two knuckles. “They’d never tried it on me before and I doubt they’ll try it again.”

“But the other patients?”

Harvey shrugged one shoulder. “They weren’t dumb enough to leave a mark without a good excuse.”

Pushing down his anger at the guards’ spiteful brutality, he asked, “Then what happened?”

Harvey shrugged again. “It was pure luck. When they were down, I stripped off the bigger one’s uniform, put it on, then went down to the laundry room just in time to catch the truck out of there.”

“Sounds easy,” he returned, knowing it was less luck and more that Harvey was keenly intelligent, had watched the routine of the asylum closely and had been able to take advantage of the abusive guards’ breach of protocol even in a fit of fury. “I think--”

“Quiet!” Harvey put a hand over his mouth, held him down, picked up the pistol from the mattress.

Over his thumping heart, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

The other man.

He’d forgotten about the other man in the hotel room.

Twisting free, he shoved Harvey away -- but Harvey was already moving towards the door.

“Don’t you dare!” he snapped, desperately undoing the knots on his left wrist. “You’re better than that, Harvey,” he snarled, almost had his wrist free when Harvey stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. “Harvey!”

Silence.

Finally wriggling his left hand free of the loosened material, he sat up, began untying his ankle restraints as quickly as he could while struggling to hear Harvey’s conversation with the man in the corridor.

Cardea?

Harvey had found Lonny Cardea?

Heart thundering in his mouth, he ripped off the remainder of the restraints, leapt from the bed, ran to the door and...Harvey fired six times before he could even turn the doorknob.

He heard Cardea’s body slump to the floor, didn’t want to open the door to the stench of gunpowder and blood, didn’t want to see Harvey standing over the body, but he had to.

“No, baby, no.” Harvey bundled him back into the room, closed the door on the blood pooling behind them. “You don’t need to see that.”

But it was all he could see, all he would see as he blindly pushed Harvey away, stumbled back against the wall, slid to the floor.

“It’s okay, baby.” Harvey crouched down beside him. “I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. Don’t cry, baby, please.” Harvey reached out to stroke his cheek and he turned away, tried to deny it one more time, but then finally had to say it.

“You planned it. You knew you were going to murder him from the start.”

“No, no, I didn’t.” Harvey moved a little closer, gulped a ragged breath. “Baby, please--”

“Don’t.” He pulled away from Harvey’s pleading touch. “Just...I thought you were getting better. I thought...” He turned to look at Harvey again. “This is the end, isn’t it?”

Harvey shook his head, grabbed his forearm in a painfully desperate grip. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

“Even if it’s true?”

“It’s not true!” Harvey grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hauled him away from the wall to snarl in his face, “Don’t say it’s true.”

“Harvey--”

“Don’t say it.” Harvey let go of his shirt to stroke his lower face as if fighting the urge to put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t,” Harvey pleaded then choked on his next breath before whispering brokenly, “You’re the only thing I have left. I can’t--”

“Harvey!” he yelled, catching Harvey in a firm embrace as Harvey collapsed on him. “Stay with me.” He gently shook Harvey back to full consciousness while sitting him up against the wall to check him for injuries.

“Don’t say it, baby.”

“I won’t,” he promised just as he found the bottom of Harvey’s shirt was soaked with blood from a deep cut on his right side. “I swear I won’t.” He ripped the front panel off the left side of Harvey’s shirt and pressed it hard to the wound.

“Fuck!” Harvey swore and grabbed his wrist with a bruising force. “You’re everything, baby. I can’t do it without you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He brought his left hand up to the right side of Harvey’s face, let Harvey kiss the palm as he thumbed Harvey’s cheek. “This is my fault.”

Harvey shook his head, kissed his palm again. “None of this is on you. Cardea just got in a lucky shot.”

“Harvey--”

“He was an animal. He raped and murdered on home invasions just because he could, but I didn’t plan to shoot him.”

“I believe you.”

“And I would never have let him hurt you.”

“I know,” he soothed, shifting his weight as he prepared to ease away. “Listen--”

“No, you listen.” Harvey’s grip tightened on his wrist. “I knew Cardea was here so I used him to take you but I set up an end run.”

“Harvey, I need to call you an ambulance.”

“Listen! While he was dumping the car, I called the cops. I told them Cardea was here, that he...”

Harvey kept talking but he couldn’t hear anymore, was trying so hard to believe in the words that the syllables were slipping through his awareness like sand through desperately clutched fingers. Then came the sirens, proclaiming in the distance that his faith had not been misplaced, and he closed his eyes through the heady rush of relief, rested his forehead against Harvey’s and breathed as if in prayer, “Forgive me.”

“Shh.” Harvey stroked his face, kissed him. “It’s time to go now, baby.”

For a wild moment, he thought Harvey meant for them both to go, for them both to leave the warehouse to Cardea’s body and the police. Then he realised Harvey wanted him to go, that Harvey wanted to save him.

“No.” He shook his head in annoyed disbelief. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“I’ll be fine.” Harvey kissed him again. “Hear the ambulance?”

He paused to listen, clearly heard the wail of the ambulance over the police sirens. “I hear it.”

“So go!”

Harvey shoved him away and he reluctantly stood up, went over to the bed and began unwrapping the remaining fabric restraints from the frame and tucking them into his trouser pockets.

“What the fuck are you doing, Bruce?”

“Taking the evidence.”

“Fuck the evidence! Go!”

“I’m going.” He walked back over to Harvey stuffing the last restraint into his pocket. “I’ll come and see you as soon as they let me,” he told Harvey, crouching down to kiss him on the side of the head. Then red and blue lights were flashing on the ceiling as police cars surrounded the building and Harvey was shoving him towards the old crane door and he had to go, had to leave Harvey, had to wriggle out between the broken slats of wood and climb up the remains of the old crane onto the warehouse roof.

As soon as he stood up on the roof’s parapet, he could see the lights of the harbour marinas, see the ambulance parked just outside the cordon of police cars. Putting the emergency vehicle count at thirteen, he crossed to the other side of the roof, leapt from the west side parapet onto the rusted roof of the nearby water tower.

From his crouched position on the water tower’s conical roof, he watched the police cover the warehouse exits, watched them enter the building. Then...nothing.

Seconds passed into minutes.

Still nothing.

No radio calls, no movement, nothing!

He should never have left Harvey, should never have--

“They’ve found him,” that perfect voice said on the breeze and Superman was suddenly there, was crouching down on the rusty roof beside him. “They’re radioing for the paramedics now.”

He didn’t look at Superman, just breathed out gratefully as the ambulance was ushered past the police cars and the paramedics hurried into the building with a gurney.

“He’s going to be okay,” Superman said softly as a hand that was perplexing large yet impossibly warm and gentle came to rest on his left shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

He wanted to say he needed his ribs not be bruised, wanted to shrug off that presumptuous hand and tell the alien nothing was ever truly okay. But he said nothing, did nothing, let Superman’s fingers stroke his shoulder ever so slightly, let the breeze wrap Superman’s cape around his back.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Superman continued quietly. “I should have known he was here.”

He didn’t know if Superman was referring to Cardea or Harvey, didn’t particularly care because, just at that moment, the paramedics came out of the building with Harvey being treated on the gurney.

“It won’t happen again,” Superman promised him as he watched Harvey being loaded into the ambulance, watched the ambulance drive away.

No siren.

That was good.

“How?” he finally responded and Superman almost startled, almost took his hand from his shoulder.

“What?”

“How do you plan on making sure it won’t happen again?” he asked, turning to look at Superman lit from the stars above and the flashing lights below.

God, he was beautiful.

“I, uh,” Superman hesitated and, for the first time, he saw Clark Kent beneath the cape. “I’m making connections in the criminal underworld. I’ll have an intelligence network up and running soon.”

“Right. And where are you going to store all this ‘intelligence network’ information?”

“In my brain,” Superman growled back at his dry tone. “I never forget anything I want to remember.”

“What about your allies?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re putting together a team, aren’t you? Super Friends?”

“I never called us that.” Superman withdrew his hand. “Who’s calling us that?”

He shrugged, tried to ignore the way his left shoulder felt extraordinary cold without the comforting warmth of Superman’s hand. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you consider the facts that most of us aren’t super or friends.”

“You’re all super enough to ordinary humans and I’m sure a few barn raisings and picnics will sort out the rest.”

He got a glare for that. “Could you be more deprecating?”

“I could try. How much more deprecating would you like me to be?”

Sighing, Superman sat down on the rusty roof crossing his legs beneath him. “Okay, I deserved that, but I didn’t mean for you to get hurt at Luthor’s. I thought--”

“You thought I could fly?”

“I thought it would take you longer to turn so you would swing off that advertising board not hit it!”

“Clearly your research was impeccable.”

“I’m trying to apologise here, you arrogant--”

“Are you apologising for knocking me off the roof?”

“No, I’m apologising for miscalculating your descent.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Superman huffed then growled, “I can’t believe they recommended you.”

Gaze narrowing, he studied Superman’s moody scowl. “Who recommended me?”

“Everyone! Everyone I asked to join the Organised League Of Heroes asked if you had joined yet, said you were the one non-powered human we needed on the team. Even the ones who refused membership said I should speak to you.”

“Alan,” he guessed.

“Yes, Alan Scott said it, but so did Zatara and the Martian and the King of Atlantis. Hell, even the Amazon princess said it!”

“Then why didn’t you take their advice?”

“I thought about it.”

“But?”

“You didn’t look--”

“Friendly enough?”

“Like a joiner and you’re very--”

“Dark?”

“Driven. I wasn’t sure of your motivations.”

That was fair enough so he let the matter drop, watched the police secure the site as the coroner and crime scene technicians arrived.

“How did you know?” Superman finally asked over the bustle below and he knew exactly what the question was but couldn’t admit the answer.

“You’re Clark Kent,” he stated instead.

“Yes,” Superman accepted impatiently.

“You’re also an alien with solar based powers.”

“Yes! Does Luthor know?”

He considered Superman’s urgent glare, wondered what Superman would do if he said yes, but then answered, “No.”

Utterly clear blue eyes closed in brief relief before fixing him with an interrogative glower. “So how did you know?”

He didn’t want to lie but he did want to answer, ended up admitting so low he barely heard it himself, “I didn’t.”

Superman stared at him as if unable to trust his own super ears. “What?”

“I didn’t,” he repeated with a growl. “I didn’t know for sure until you admitted it.”

“You’re saying you suckered me? You guessed and I fell for it?”

“They were logical deductions.”

“You guessed!” Superman snarled in furious frustration. “You guessed and I fell for it hook, line and sinker!”

“Maybe you wanted to get sunk.”

“Shut up!” Superman’s eyes sparked red in warning. “I’ve heard more than enough from you.”

Shrugging one shoulder, he tongued the cut on his bottom lip and watched Superman glare out across the river towards Lafayette, wondered if Superman could see the power station at Breaker Point, if he could see Fairley Bridge, if he could see all the way to Gotham. But all that didn’t matter if Superman couldn’t see when he was being suckered.

“Stop smirking,” Superman growled without looking at him and he schooled his expression into something resembling neutrality as Superman faced him again. “I’m really beginning not to like you.”

“Is that why you’re not going to ask me to join your super secret hero gang?”

“It’s not super, it’s not secret and I am asking you to join.”

He raised a surprised eyebrow. “Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“They’re right and you’re right,” Superman answered simply. “I don’t approve of your methods and I certainly don’t approve of your behaviour, but the League needs an efficacious way of storing and distributing information and you are, apparently, Mr Strategic Intelligence.”

“Mr Strategic Intelligence? I can tell you’re a reporter.”

“Are you in or not?”

“Will I still be banned from Metropolis?”

“Not if you say yes.”

“To the Organised League Of Heroes?”

“It’s a working title.”

“It’s a terrible title.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Something simple.”

“Such as?”

“Such as...the Justice League,” he threw out just to say something.

“Then welcome to the Justice League,” Superman immediately returned. “You’re a founding member. I’ll put all the information I have on hard drive and bring it to you at the weekend. Should be about six terabytes.”

Okay.

Apparently he’d just joined the Justice League.

Ollie was going to be pissed.

“You can handle six terabytes, right?”

He gave Superman a dry look. “Unlike you, I can’t keep everything in my super brain.”

“Was that a yes?”

“No, it was code for I’ll build the League its own database.”

Superman blinked at him like a kid who’d just been told he was going to the zoo. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

He turned his attention back to the warehouse, watched Cardea’s body being carried out, watched it being loaded into the coroner’s van, wondered how the world would have changed if he’d come to Metropolis a day later.

“Careful, you’ll make it worse,” Superman said softly, and he realised he was sucking on his bloody bottom lip, deliberately let it go and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as the coroner’s van drove off. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Superman went on, pulling his legs up to sit hugging his knees to his chest. “I know you don’t want to hear this but people like Cardea are never going to go peacefully, not through our choices but through theirs.”

He considered Superman’s calm solemnity. “You think I tried to save him.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t?”

“No. But I’m not what you think I am.”

“What do I think you are?”

Resisting the urge to suck at his lip again, he turned his face into the northern breeze, could almost smell Gotham in its cold caress. “I didn’t give that land away just to help those people or just to chisel Luthor. I did it to hurt someone else.”

“Who?”

“Some people I share mitochondrial DNA with.”

“You mean your family?”

“No. I mean people related to my mother.”

“Ohkay.” Superman decided to humour him. “I know the Tafts still own a few parcels of land in Park Ridge...”

“That’s them.”

“So they wanted to buy your land so they could sell the lot on to Luthor at a huge profit?”

“Something like that.”

“I see,” Superman murmured as if mulling over a moral dilemma. “Well, I don’t know the people related to your mother, Bruce, but saving vulnerable families can never be wrong.”

He scowled at the use of his first name, turned to warn Superman off, but then found he didn’t want to go through with it as soon as he met that guileless blue gaze.

“What?” Superman asked at his hesitant look.

“Nothing.” He shrugged but then couldn’t help adding, “Clark.”

“Hmm. Well, since we’re on first name terms,” Clark sighed, “can I give you a ride back to your hotel?”

He frowned at the unexpected offer. “When you say ride, you don’t mean in a car, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Of course you don’t.”

 

 

End


End file.
